


the scene ends badly (as you might imagine)

by therestisdetail



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, daryl doesn't do healthy relationships mmmkay, it's prompt fills I don't even know, lots of slurs, trigger warning for for slurs?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-08
Updated: 2014-01-08
Packaged: 2018-01-08 00:33:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1126251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therestisdetail/pseuds/therestisdetail
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>little Daryl Dixon prompt fills from way back; wherein Merle doesn't really have enough boundaries, Glenn doesn't really have enough fear, and Carol doesn't really have time for this right now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the scene ends badly (as you might imagine)

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt** : Glenn likes how rough Daryl's hands are.

There are some things Daryl doesn't do.  
  
Glenn would be the first to throw his hands up and say he knew what he was getting into. He'd heard "pansy-ass faggot" fly from Daryl's mouth as instinctively as "nigger" and "chink" when the man felt cornered, fell back on long-ingrained reactions. He chalked it up as a win when Daryl didn't punch him out the first time Glenn dared let his hand linger on his arm long enough to make his intentions clear. Hell, he'd met Merle, could only imagine what kind reaction he'd have to any hint of not-entirely-heterosexual behaviour, what kind of violence - what kind of violence Daryl would find the norm, in his crazy-ass redneck world, that Glenn doesn't know well enough to judge or understand.

That it's only _some_ things Daryl doesn't do is something of a miracle, when Glenn thinks about it.  
  
What this all means is broken off words and silences Glenn's too afraid to fill and probably would only mess up anyway, getting up with shaky legs whenever Daryl gives him that _look_ , the one that makes Glenn feel like he just signed a blank cheque and he couldn't care less. It means learning to lie better, bit by bit, as that look disappears like it was never there when Rick or Lori or Andrea or any of them come within Daryl's view. It means being crowded back against a tree when Daryl finds a secluded spot. It means Daryl peeling off Glenn's shirt even as he knocks Glenn's hands away when he tries to do the same, fabric like armour he's unwilling to give up. It means Daryl's fingers making light work of both their belts and Daryl's hands -  
  
What it _means_ is Daryl's hands on Glenn's skin. And it's probably not normal, how that is enough for Glenn, but he can't help it. Even before, he'd liked watching Daryl's hands. They were articulate, capable; as expressive as his words usually weren't. Large, god, and marked all over with lines from where the crossbow string cut in deep, or where an engine part burned on contact, or just calluses roughened with a lifetime of physical labour, toughened pads left from tight grips. And Glenn can feel every little one.  
  
Glenn thinks about Daryl's hands _all the time_. Not just when he's alone or bored or horny, but when he's doing things, when he's in the middle of chores or a conversation or completely innappropriately while he's watching over Carl as he practices what passes for schoolwork, nowadays. It's sorta really fucking inconvenient, actually. He almost shoots Daryl a dirty look more than once, but it's not like there would be any point to that and Daryl would probably just look back at him with that defensive, scornful unease he wears more often than not around the rest of the group. Glenn kind of wants to make it go away, and doesn't know how.  
  
There are some things Daryl doesn't do, and it's ok with Glenn. He gets it. Except that the first time they get past a humiliating, desperate fumble of hands and zips in the dark, the first time they meet each other's eyes for a moment and things just click, Daryl slides to his knees while Glenn's still trying to find the confidence to move and _everything_ Glenn thought he had worked out goes flying through the fucking window. All thought goes out the window, because Daryl's mouth is wrapped around his dick and Daryl's palms with their ridges and calluses are pressed against his hips, holding them still and _what the fuck is happening_  
  
"Thanks," he says, after, and then is overcome with the urge to bash his head repeatedly against the tree trunk. It's too late to fix it, though, because Daryl blinks at him slowly and makes a short, noncommital sound before turning and leaving without a word. Glenn does knock his head against the tree, then, but just once because it really hurts. He figures that's the end of it; he's messed up this thing, whatever it was, messed it up completely.

He avoids Daryl the next day until he feels guilty enough that Andrea asks him if he's feeling well. Over dinner he risks a glance over, not really knowing what he expects.  
  
Daryl looks back like nothing ever happened, and two hours later Glenn finds himself following the man out of eye- and earshot of the camp. Any inclination his conscience has toward discussion is overridden by his dick and its superior authority when Daryl grabs at his jeans, drops down. His hands run down the line of Glenn's hipbone as he gets his underwear out of the way, and their solid weight is hypnotic, their ridges and coarsenesses familiar.  
  
"Your hands," Glenn says, the words tripping off his tongue without stopping to check with his brain. "You've got. You've got a scar along your knuckles and one from the crossbow string and, and on the inside of your palm, and it's rough where you've held on to, lifted things, and I can feel it all, I-"  
  
Glenn rambles to a stop when he realises Daryl is staring. Shit. There's no telling what his response will be; Glenn's not even sure what a normal person's response would be, in something resembling a normal relationship, to that kind of outburst. He holds a breath.  
  
"Shoulda fucking said," Daryl mumbles roughly, eyes unwavering. "If y'wanted them off've ya." And that's not, that's not what Glenn meant _at all_ , only Daryl has let go of his hips and dropped his hands to the denim of Glenn's half-on jeans, and hasn't gotten off his knees.  
  
Oh.  
  
 _Oh_.  
  
"No, I didn't mean that," Glenn says, or tries to say, but it comes out as "ngggggghhhhhhthhht", because Daryl's leaning in again and Glenn is only human, seriously, he's just a man, jesus goddamned christ.  
  
He does manage to get his fingers around Daryl's wrists and pull his hands back up to his hips, though, and he can feel the surprise stilling Daryl's movements.  
  
"I mean I like them," he tries again. It seems to come out as english, this time. "I really like how they feel. Um." Daryl's expression is unreadable. Glenn decides it's time to go big or go home, and fuck going home. He twists his wrist so he's gripping one of Daryl's hands, and can run his fingers along the roughed creases that crisscross it. "I like that I can feel these. And if you, you know. With the shirt." He has to lean down a bit to press the fingers of his other hand along Daryl's collar, where the hint of scarring starts. "I'd probably like that too. Maybe a lot. But only if you wanted. I just. I like you."  
  
"Fuck, Korea," Daryl says eventually, with a hesitant twist of his mouth. "Y'say shit like that, I don't even know if you're f'real."  
  
Glenn's throat tightens. "So hard to believe?" He asks, not as light hearted as he wanted to sound. And he doesn't want to hear the answer, so he pulls Daryl up and smashes their lips together and shows him where to put his stupid, wonderful hands, which is to say everywhere he can. Daryl, as with everything he does, catches on quick.  
  
For an eighth fuck, it's not bad at all. For a first kiss, it's fantastic.  


	2. this is not a game, boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompt** : Merle beats some ass when someone cat calls Daryl. (Set pre-zombie apocalypse)

Daryl walks into prison for the first time at sixteen with a black eye, a carton of cigarettes stuffed into his waistband and his Pa's favourite jacket; it doesn't fit him, it won't for years, but the leather feels like armour and the weight seems to make breathing steady a whole lot easier as a big guy in uniform pats him down. It'll probably earn him a matching shiner on the other eye when he gets home, he knows that. If Pa gets sober long enough to see it's gone.  
  
Hell, Merle's been in this place for a week, and it ain't like the old man has even noticed.   
  
He's ushered in to a room that reminds him more of school than anything, cheap plastic chairs and tables all in rows. There's a poster up by the side of the wall with the visiting times in big-ass letters, and a few bunches of people scattered around, mostly wives, sometimes with a kid. He hears Merle before he sees him, jumps when his hands slam down on his shoulders.  
  
"Fuck me if it isn't little Darlena, come to bring me homemade goddamn cupcakes-"  
  
"Fuck you," Daryl snarls while his mouth pulls in to an involuntary grin, two hard punches to the arm somehow turning in to a rough, strangling hug. He shoves Merle's hand to his hip hoping he'll feel the little plastic and cardboard box and have brains enough to grab it before they pull apart. Merle's either gotten smarter in here or maybe it's just that he isn't tripping, but he figures it and tugs the cigarettes free. "Like I'd bring you shit," Daryl says, still grinning. "Be grateful I hauled my ass all the way up here on account of you."  
  
On of the wardens narrows his eyes and takes a step towards them, and Merle pulls a face and lets go of Daryl. He slumps down in his chair and Daryl follows suit, unconsciously mirroring his brother's slouch.   
  
"Merle, you gotta hear wh-"  
  
"The fuck happened to your face?" Merle cuts in, mocking smile slipping away. Daryl flinches.  
  
"Ain't nothin'," he says, hunching his shoulders and jutting out his chin. He holds out for a few moments before deflating. He never could lie right, with Merle. Doesn't mean he doesn't keep trying. "Was an accident, a'right? Jesus." Merle doesn't say anything, but he's got that look on his face and Daryl feels like he did when he was a kid, when Merle'd get mad and take the old man's car out and come home full of bourbon and Daryl would make a run for it before he caught the brunt of it, or worse, got caught in the middle.   
  
"Merle," he says insistently, and leans forward. "Gave as good as I got, didn't I? So leave it."   
  
Merle blinks, twice, then tilts his head to the side. "You takin' care of my bike?"  
  
"Sure I am."  
  
"You touch the ignition, I break your neck, you remember that," he says, and Daryl rolls his eyes. He's been taking it out twice a week at the least since the day Merle left, and they both know it.   
  
"Sure."  
  
"And you see that nigger-lovin' bitch got me in here you tell him tha-"  
  
Whatever he's going to say next, Daryl's never going to know because some fucker with wanky fucking designs shaved in to his hair and a build like a grizzly bear starts eyeballing him from across the room and he shifts in his chair uncomfortably, wondering what the hell that look means, wondering if Merle's already managed to start shit with some sorta-  
  
Then the guy honest-to-god _catcalls_ from across the room. It takes Daryl a minute to work out what's happening; by then, Merle is already on his feet.

God _damn_ it.   
  
"Pretty little cocksucker you got yourself, Dixon, bet he-" the guy is saying, all ego-trip and no sense of self preservation, and the suprise that briefly crosses his face before Merle's fist connects with it is somewhat satisfying. Once, twice, and there's not a lot left of his nose but a bloody mess smeared down his face, and Merle fists his collar and brings his knee up in to the guy's gut, sending him doubling over.  
  
Across the room, people spring from chairs, move closer or away. Daryl gets his hands on Merle's shoulders. "Hey! No, oh hell, no-"  
  
Merle's damn clinical when he puts the boot in, Daryl knows it. Gets the guy's ankle and hen brings his heel down on his fingers when he reaches out the balance himself, over and over even though they're broken already. Then a kick to the ribs, and then- and then Daryl's finally got a good enough hold that Merle can't keep at it or get him away without breaking some of Daryl's ribs too. It's a gamble that pays off.  
  
"The fuck, man" he hisses, while Merle stills and the wardens converge, before they're all pulled apart. "Ain't worth that." He's not sure what, precisely, he's referring to, but he means it. Ain't worth Merle staying in this place any longer than he has to.  
  
Merle just looks at him with bloodshot eyes and twists his fingers in Daryl's hair, gets blood that isn't either of theirs in his hair. Daryl looks back as long as he can, even when they're being dragged in different directions.   
  
What Merle doesn't do is say " _mine_ ", and what Daryl doesn't reply is " _come home_ ", but the words are there all the same.


	3. if she's anything like me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompt** : I'd like an AU fic or ficbit about the time Carol and Daryl met in the courthouse. She's just gotten full custody of Sophia from her abusive ex, and he's just there to see his brother's sentencing.

 

He has wings. It's the first thing she notices.  
  
No, that isn't true, but it's one of the only things she remembers noticing. Everything is so busy, such a rush, people walking in and out from room to room while she sits here and waits. It's nothing, nothing at all compared to the rush inside her head. As if weeks of pent up fears and tension are collapsing in on themselves with no end in sight, a flurry of panicked possibilities. There's no reason that a worn pattern on the back of a leather jacket should catch her attention; no reason at all that it should matter what shapes the scuffed white and stitches form. And yet. Ever since she finally made the decision, was _driven_ to this decision, her world has become small and shaky. A day-by-day world. She's only ever sure of a few things at a time.  
  
She loves her daughter. On the other side of a closed door, a judge is deciding if she gets to keep her. There's nothing she can do but wait. She loves her daughter. And the man across the room has wings.  
  
Carol sits and twists her sleeve, playing with the loose threads that weren't there when she arrived. One of her favourite shirts, too. Her best one. She'd worn her best, wanted to make a good impression even at this point, when there was little left to be done, just waiting and - no. Stop. She stills her hands and looks around again. The man with the wings is lean and rangy, under the denim and the leather jacket. All rough edges and nothing else, except he's wearing a bruise on his cheekbone like he hasn't noticed it; not a badge of pride, as it sometimes is for men, but not with any shame. Carol twists her sleeve harder and the thread unravels entirely. She doesn't notice. The man, he holds himself like he's uncomfortable being inside, or with people. Tensed up, an untame thing, and she wonders why he's here. She's never been afraid of men like that. They don't ever bother you unless you bother them.  
  
One hour, sixteen minutes. The lawyer, she'd said she would call Carol in. When it was time. The clock in the corner is ugly, cheap plastic. One hour, seventeen minutes gone.  
  
She hadn't had a choice. Sophia would understand that, one day. That was another certainty, one of the few, one that she had to cling to because if she stopped believing it she wouldn't have had the strength to go through with leaving him. Ed had hurt her. Ed would have hurt Sophia, and it was that simple, that and a call to the police and a court-appointed lawyer. She blinks. The man with the wings on his back is smoking a cigarette like his life depends on it, like the little roll of paper and tobacco crinkling between his fingers can keep the world at bay if he concentrates hard enough. She blinks again. Ed is a bastard. She loves her daughter. These are things that are certain.  
  
Her eyes fall to her sleeve again and she begins to pull at another thread. It's a brighter green than the ones next to it, and she focuses to the point where she doesn't realise the man has moved until he's looming over her, eyes on her but not meeting hers. They're narrow and clear. He's holding out the packet of cigarettes and waiting.  
  
"D'ya want one or not," he says eventually, soft like he's trying to get the words out without anyone really noticing, "been eyein' them like you was dyin'."

She doesn't smoke. "Thank you," she says, and takes on anyway. It hangs in her fingers uselessly. His eyebrow arches slightly but he doesn't comment.  
  
"Have you been waiting long?" She says, perfectly polite, even as she thinks distantly that if anything he seems more uncomfortable in conversation. She's a little surprised when he replies.  
  
"Nah." He wrinkles his nose. "Yeah. Seems so, sorta thing."  
  
She knows exactly what he means.  
  
One hour twenty-three minutes, and her lawyer is standing in the doorway. Sarah, Sally, something like that. Sandra.  
  
"Did you do it?" She says all in a rush, hearing the words as she says them with a detached sort of horror. If she looks at him she can pretend, just for a second, she hasn't seen Sandra yet.  
  
The side of his mouth twitches upwards. "Not me. M'brother." He looks at her properly, and his eyes really are very clear. "An' yeah, he did."  
  
"Carol?" Sandra calls, and the man with the wings on his jacket has already walked away without looking back.  
  
Carol stands up, breathes in, and looks forward instead.


End file.
